


Lessons

by Crysania



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crysania/pseuds/Crysania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Rumbelle Secret Santa. The prompt was "Belle as Gold's piano teacher" but I'm a dyslexic idiot, so it's "Gold as Belle's piano teacher" instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suchadearie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchadearie/gifts).



The bell over the door jingled and he sighed. The sign had just been turned to "closed" but he hadn't yet locked the door. It seemed no one in this town paid much attention to the sign anyway, but it was getting ridiculously late for anyone to come to his shop. He'd only seen two people that day anyway, both looking for _something_ and neither being able to pinpoint exactly what that something _was_. It was a common problem in this town.

He stepped out from the backroom and saw her, back to him, looking at something on one of his shelves. "It seems you've missed the sign, dearie. We're closed." She turned then and smiled at him and he tried to not let it affect him, tried desperately to not let any emotion show. "Miss French," he said and the words were as dry as any he had ever spoken.

"Mr. Gold." Her voice was soft, a little throaty, the sort of richness that always went straight through him and he was never quite sure if it hit his heart or his groin.

He cleared his throat. "What can I do for you?" That wasn't quite what he _meant_ to come out of his mouth. _We're closed. Come back tomorrow. Or never. Please…_ But it was what came out nonetheless.

"I'm looking for a present…for a friend. Her birthday is tomorrow and it seems I've forgotten yet again." She gave an embarrassed shrug.

"Ah and so this was your last resort." He waved one hand in the air, indicating the shop around him.

"Well, not quite." She smiled again and he found he couldn't look away from her mouth, the way her lips pressed together and she smiled without showing any teeth. "It was my first resort actually. My friend…Jenny? I think you know her. She's in here a lot…"

"Ah yes. _Jenny_." The girl was in his shop at least a few times a week, always looking, never buying. "I've had to divest her of more than one item on her way out the door." He raised one eyebrow and was pleased to see the young woman blush.

"She's always had a problem with that." It wasn't that Jenny was into stealing. It was just that every time she found something beautiful she couldn't let it go. It ended up in her pack without her even realizing it. And when called out on it, she was so utterly guileless that it was hard to be mad at her. _Oh this? It must have fallen into my pack. I swear I don't know how it got there._ "I hope you haven't been too hard on her."

"Are you admonishing me, Miss French?" He took a step closer to her and was pleased to hear her laugh rather than see retreat from him. Most people in this town were wary of him and with good reason. He had spent a long time, decades even, cultivating that fear. For some reason, the petite librarian had never shown any fear of him. Perhaps it was because she lived in the one place that he didn't own, thus never having to come into contact with him regarding business. Perhaps it was because they had a shared love of books. Whenever he came to the library, she always smiled at him with an unexpected sort of fondness and brought out books she had secreted away that she thought he might enjoy. It was a kindness he wasn't used to and it drew him back to her time and time again against his better judgment.

"Of course not. But Jenny _is_ special."

"She is that." He paused for a moment. "I can assure you no harm has come to her while in my shop."

Belle nodded. "Good."

"Well, dearie, look around, see if you find anything your friend would enjoy." He turned to walk away from her and felt her hand come out to grip his upper arm, an unexpected touch that stopped him in his tracks.

"I was hoping you might be able to help." Her eyes met his and he tried not to think about how close she was standing, how she still had a hand on him.

"How could _I_ help?" And if his voice was a bit hoarse, he hoped she wouldn't notice.

Belle bit her lip, an unconscious gesture he'd seen her make a hundred times before, and this time he knew it went straight to his groin. "Well, surely there must be something that you've _divested_ her of that I could afford?"

He took a deep breath, trying not to focus on the way her lips moved as she formed the words, trying not to think about the things he'd like to divest _her_ of. She was off-limits, too young, the well-loved librarian of a town that considered him an old monster. If he even looked at her the wrong way, any number of her friends would be at his shop with pitchforks and torches in hand, metaphorically speaking of course.

Stepping back, he severed the connection between them. "She seems to be most interested in anything of the sea. I've found several mermaid figurines tucked away in her pack."

"Good," she said, a small smile playing about her lips. "Now we're getting somewhere. Show me." And he wasn't so sure she was talking about the mermaid figurines.

He found a handful, pointed out the ones her friend had taken in the past, and was pleased to see her pick out a lovely one done in porcelain. It was, to be honest, his favorite of the bunch and based on the amount of times the figurine had found its way into her friend's purse, probably one of hers as well.

 While he wrapped the item carefully in paper, Belle wandered his shop. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, not really needing to see what he was doing with the figurine and the paper to be able to wrap it properly. He had done this countless times before, the motion of his hands as familiar as turning a doorknob or starting up his car. He didn't need to watch, and so instead watched _her_.

She finally ended up in front of the antique upright piano he had tucked away in one dark corner. He had never really wanted to sell it, though everything in the shop was technically for sale. And so he had nearly hidden it away, put it in a dark corner that people tended to avoid. Leave it to this woman to _not_ avoid that corner.

He watched as she slid her hands across the top of it, lightly touching the dark wood then continued down, tracing the leafy pattern across the front, before caressing the keys.

He had never wanted to be that piano so much in his entire life, imagined her giving the same care to him, running her fingers down the side of his face, caressing his neck and chest. Shaking his head, he forced himself out of such a fantasy. Women the likes of Miss French did not give old pawnbrokers a first look, much less a second.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" He came up behind her and reached out a hand as well, tracing the same pattern hers had a moment ago.

He heard a slight gasp come from her as she turned to look over her shoulder at him. She didn't step closer, nor did she move away. He was standing close, too close really, close enough that he could feel the heat emanating from her body and he tried to imagine _anything_ that would stop his body's reaction, _anything_ that would force him to step away.

Instead, he leaned closer. _A mistake_ …he knew that's what all of this was. He waited for her to push him away, step out of the near-circle he had made with his arms as he touched the wood she had just brushed her hands across.

"It is," she agreed, a slight hitch in her voice. That catch, the little breath she took as she finished the words, all went straight through him, muddling heart and loin and making him wonder if he was starting to lose his mind. "Do you play?"

"I do." It wasn't something _anyone_ in town knew. How he had kept the secret with so many people just walking into his shop at odd hours, he would never know. It was something he did late at night, the doors shut, most of the lights off, just him and the keys, the pedals, the sinuousness of the sound as it weaved its magic around him. It was more than just the music for him. It was the feel of the keys beneath his fingers, the vibration in the air as he hit a particularly deep note. It comforted him, like nothing in this world had ever been able to.

"Will you play for me?" He stepped back then, removing his hands from the instrument, turning away from her. She followed. "You don't have to if you don't want to." She sounded contrite. He didn't turn to look back at her. He had never played for someone before. His music was a private endeavor, something taught to him by an aunt when he was young and that he always turned to when he needed to shut out the outside world.

He took a deep breath. "I will." And he realized that he actually wanted to. He _wanted_ to bring her into that world, show her its beauty.

She skirted around him and waved a hand at the piano with a slight bow. "It's all yours, maestro." She smiled, a little twinkle in her blue eyes. He realized she was _enjoying_ this, perhaps a bit more than she should.

With one raised eyebrow he took a seat at the piano, shifting until he had his position just right, until he felt balanced on the bench, hands at the ready. He played a few warm-up scales, the cool feeling of the keys calming his rather unsteady nerves.

As the sound of the scales died away, he turned to see her seated close by. It startled him, finding her there, so close. She gave him a sheepish look. "I want to be able to see you play." She shrugged her shoulders.

He took a deep breath. "Do you have any requests?"

She made a slight humming noise as she thought. It wasn't something he had ever noticed her do before, but he had rarely spent so much time in her presence. "Something by Chopin? He's always been one of my favorites."

"I'm surprised by that request, Miss French. I didn't take you for the Chopin type."

"No? What did you take me for?" There was surprise evident in her voice. He wasn't sure really. She was young. He suspected she had no favorites, not in classical really. He expected her to choose some sentimental easy listening kind of thing.

"Sappy love songs?" She rolled her eyes at him and he smirked. "Maybe a bit of Satie?"

"I always did like Satie. But he's not my favorite. I prefer a bit more meat in my music." He arched an eyebrow at her and tried not to think about the double entendre inherent in that sentence.

"Well, Chopin it is then. Who am I to deny a lady what she most wants?" He stretched his hands, closed his eyes, and brought his hands down to the piano. Softly, so softly. The beginning of the piece was all about subtlety, weaving in the one note that is the driving force of the whole piece. The melody is simple, almost deceptively so. Ah, there's that bit of _rubato_ , borrowing a bit of time from the next measure to extend the current. He could see Belle out of the corner of his eye as she leaned forward slightly during it, anticipating the next downbeat. She was swaying just slightly with the ebb and flow of the music. He chanced a glance at her, saw her eyes shut, and her lips turned up in a half smile that echoed his own.

Turning back to the piano, he began the drive into the middle section. The repeated note becoming more insistent, just slightly faster, the music increasing in volume. Belle was leaning forward and then, the crashing chords, the leap up the octave, still the unstable dominant, never reaching that final tonic note, always reaching for that stability and never quite getting there. And suddenly one of her hands came down and gripped his thigh, squeezing and then caressing, lightly running up from near his knee to far too close to his groin.

He almost jumped out of his seat, almost lost the tempo and the notes, but the look on her face, the parted lips, the closed eyes, the way she was leaning so close to him, made him keep going with scarcely a hesitation.

He didn’t want to keep playing.

He wanted to do…things. Things he hadn’t thought of doing in more years than he cared to count.

The music wound down, quieted from the insistent repetitions, fell back to the undulating flow of the opening section. As he came to the end, the music falling away in a mere whisper of sound, Belle leaned all the way over, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.

He bowed his head and then turned to look at her, trying not to think of how close her lips were, how easy it would be to lean forward and capture them with his own. For a time they sat companionably side by side, allowing the sound of the piano to ring into silence.

Belle’s hand traced patterns on the inside of his thigh and he didn’t even think to stop her, instead spreading his legs just a little further apart as she lazily made her way up his leg, closer to where he suddenly realized he _desperately_ wanted her to touch. He could feel himself harden almost painfully and then Belle’s hand was on him, cupping him and she knew… _she knew_.

Startled out of the moment, he suddenly stood up, hands slamming down clumsily on the keys as he backed away from her.

She looked horrified, her eyes wide and her mouth formed into a small “o” of surprise. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” She grabbed her purse from where it lay on the floor and stood, tripping over the chair leg in her mad rush to get out of the shop.

"Miss French?"

She turned just as she reached the door. "Yes?"

"If you so much as breathe a word of this…" He let the threat hang.

"I understand." And then she was gone, out the door, leaving him alone with just the jingling of the bells and the echo of the music still reverberating through his head.

* * *

He hadn’t seen her in days and he wondered if he ever would again. When he stopped by the library to drop off some books, she wasn’t at the desk. Young Henry Mills was there and he conspiratorially told him that he was guarding the desk while Miss French had to run an errand.

He had nodded and smiled at the boy, reaching out to affectionately ruffle his hair before departing. He had little use for most of the town, but Henry had always been a precocious boy, sometimes stopping by his shop to ask questions about the items in it, sometimes using it as a place to hide out from his rather controlling mother. Over the years, he had developed a special fondness for the boy. Still, it was disappointing to find him in the place Belle usually occupied.

Belle had _always_ been at the library, seated at the front desk, when he came in to bring by his books. It was odd to not see her there. Usually she had a few books sitting in a neat little pile next to her computer waiting for him. She knew his tastes and she catered to it. He always thought that made her an excellent librarian and so when time came for him to make some sort of charitable contribution, something he could write off on his taxes, it was always the library that received the generous stipend.

She never knew, of course. But he knew she suspected. There weren’t many in the little town who had the money to make such a donation and it would certainly not be Regina, the mayor, bothering to do it despite her son’s interest in reading. Regina did not make charitable donations, no matter how good they might look for her.

It was late the next week when Belle French finally made her way back to his shop. She was quiet and subdued when she walked in, her eyes slightly downcast. He saw her glance briefly at the piano and he couldn’t help but wonder if she remembered all that had occurred there.

“Miss French,” he finally said, drawing her gaze to him.

She met his eyes briefly, her teeth worrying her lower lip, her eyes sliding away far too quickly. He watched her move around the shop quietly, touching various items as she did so.

“Is there something you wanted?”

She stopped in her perusal of his shop to glance over at him. There was a slight tint of pink to her cheeks. Yes indeed, she _did_ remember. “Jenny loved the mermaid figurine.”

It wasn’t the answer he expected. She was playing a game and she expected him to play along. He grimaced slightly before answering. “Yes, I thought she would. She hasn’t attempted to pilfer anything from me in the past week.”

Belle smiled at him and he felt something inside him soften. She had that effect on him, making him do things he never could have imagined doing, things like playing the piano and letting her get close to him. He had gone a long time without touch, could in fact barely remember the last time a woman had done more than shake his hand or brush his fingers as she took a package out of his hands. Even that was rare, for he took great pains to wrap their purchases and place it on the counter for easy reach.

He was known in the town for being cold, emotionless, sarcastic to a fault. His snarky rejoinders to the mayor were legendary all through Storybrooke and none who came into his shop wished to be there longer than was absolutely necessary. He was the monster within their midst, the dragon hiding in his lair of treasures.

Only Belle dared breach his inner sanctum in such a way.  At that moment, she was leaning over his counter, the low-cut V of her blouse giving him a view that he had to wrench his gaze away from. As he did so, as he looked back up at her, he saw her smile, a slow sensuous look that slowly crossed her lips and finally made its way to her eyes.

He had to take a step back, look away. He moved slightly behind the cash register, turning to grasp the box of receipts he kept nearby, anything to keep his hands busy with a task other than the one he wanted them to attend to. “Miss French, what are you really here for?” His voice came out terser than he intended.

She glanced briefly at the piano before turning to look back at him. “Would you teach me how to play?”

“Piano?” He couldn’t stop his eyebrows from shooting up. That certainly wasn’t what he expected, though he shouldn’t be surprised. Belle French had managed to surprise him on many an occasion, the last time she visited his shop more so than ever.

“No, pinochle,” she shot back, the smile on her face tempering the sarcastic words.

He felt his face pull up into a small grin. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to play that Miss French. I understand that Mr. Clark from the pharmacy is a pretty good card player however. You can probably find him down at the Rabbit Hole most evenings.”

Belle leaned back over his counter, lightly touching his arm. “You _know_ that’s not what I really meant. Can you teach me?”

She seemed so earnest, leaning close to him, blue eyes wide and guileless as she looked up at him. And look up she did. It seemed she had forgone the high heels she tended to wear this day, leaving her several inches shorter than him. He was surprised to find himself liking it so much. His lack of height had never really bothered him. It just wasn’t something he thought much about until moments like these. Belle French made him feel tall, and he wasn’t entirely sure that was solely due to how tiny she was.

“Now why would you want to learn such a thing, Miss French?” He mirrored her position on the counter, leaned slightly forward. They were close, too close if he wanted to think about it really, but he didn’t. And so he allowed the closeness, the near intimacy of the moment.

He thought Belle French would pull back slightly.

She didn’t.

Instead, she smiled at him and reached up one hand to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. He held himself still, desperately retaining his hold on some sort of sanity, refusing to lean into the touch.

“Because I want to.” Her voice was soft, low, slightly husky. He felt a shiver go through his body at her words. They seemed near meaningless and yet there was an undercurrent he could not avoid recognizing.

“Not here.”

“Of course not.” Her smile was secretive. “Shall we meet at your place?”

He arched an eyebrow. “You’re rather bold, Miss French.”

“So I’ve been told.” The smirk on her face turned into a full smile, straight white teeth showing, eyes crinkling. “You do have a piano in that big old house of yours don’t you?”

“I do…”

“Then?”

He wasn’t getting out of this one. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, really.

“My place. The shop’s closed on Sundays.”

“Wonderful. Two o’clock?”

He paused for a moment. Was he really going to bring her over, let her enter his lair? _No one_ entered his house. It was his private sanctuary, the place he retreated to in order to avoid the world. He invited in no one. Not even the mayor had entered his home, though she had tried multiple times. He preferred to keep his secrets, guard his treasures like a fat old dragon.

“Two o’clock sounds fine,” he heard himself say. There were none but Belle who could get him to acquiesce so easily.

“I’ll bring the wine!” The smile she gave him was bright and she leaned further forward, both hands placed on the glass countertop in front of her. He contemplated stepping back, moving further away. She was simply too close. Yet he couldn’t move, found himself frozen to the spot. She moved suddenly, pushing up with her hands, her slightly open mouth meeting his.

And before he could react, before he could even think about kissing her back or pushing her away or _Miss French what are you doing_ , she was gone, the jingle of the bells announcing her departure.

* * *

Two o’clock on Sunday…with wine. What exactly had he gotten himself into?

He wondered, as the time approached, if Belle French was the type of person to be early or late or if she would be one of those rare sorts who showed up almost exactly on time. He was caught somewhere between her being extremely punctual and her being late. She had the keen intelligence of those who showed up on time, but he had seen her so easily distracted by books that he could well imagine her losing track of time, maybe even forgetting entirely.

A small part of him was almost hoping she’d simply not show. It would be easier that way. He could pretend he was annoyed at her. She could pretend she really meant to come. And then they could go about their separate lives and act as if that little incident in his shop didn’t happen.

For a short bit, a _very_ short bit, he was sure that would happen. Two o’clock rolled around and there was no sign of Belle French. And if he was waiting for her at a window, keeping an eye out, she would never know.

But no, he wasn’t that lucky, or was it unlucky? He saw Belle’s car come rattling down the road toward his place. He lived on the outskirts of town and he hadn’t even considered she’d have to drive. Her car, some small blue thing, was practically falling apart around her. It made horrible noises, didn’t always start, but she swore by it. It was _quirky_ , not a death trap. Only Belle French would believe such a thing.

And only Belle French would flirt with the town monster. Only Belle French would dare kiss him and leave him alone in his shop with the taste of her lips still on his, the scent of her perfume still wrapped around him.

He opened the door as she approached, the promised bottle of wine in one hand. “Miss French, please do come in.” Taking the wine from her, he waved her on ahead.

With just a smile, she stepped around him and entered his private sanctuary. He was almost sure his life was about to go completely off track. He wasn’t sure he disliked the idea.

“I hope you like Merlot,” she said as she stopped in the entranceway to remove her coat. He quickly set down the bottle and helped her out of the bulky coat, hanging it on the rack behind him before turning back and seeing what she was wearing. She was not dressed for warmth, nor for the piano lesson he thought he was giving her. The shirt she wore was somewhat low-cut, baring too much skin and forcing his eyes to follow the lines of the necklace she wore down to the tiny bit of cleave that showed. Her skirt was loose, flowing, but shorter than what he’d seen her wearing around town. The heels were back, putting her at a near-even height to him. Her lips were close, too close, and he took a step back.

“Merlot is fine.” He hoped she wouldn’t hear the slight hoarseness to his voice. He directed her into the living area where he kept the old baby grand piano he had rescued many years ago from the trash heap. It had been restored beautifully, the instrument now in top shape. After hiring a few piano tuners who he felt didn’t do the proper job, he had learned the art himself and now the piano was perfectly in tune.

As he put the bottle of wine down in the kitchen, he could hear a few random notes being hit on the instrument, just a light touching of one key after another. He wasn’t used to hearing the piano from such a distance. He himself was the only one who played it, the only one who touched the keys. And now Belle French was there, her hands caressing the keys he had spent countless time with, her tiny hands producing tiny sounds on an instrument that was at least as beautiful as she was. He clasped his hands together, tried to ignore their slight shaking, and made his way into the living area.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” And he wasn’t sure if he was really talking about the piano.

She turned to look at him, one hand still on the wood of the piano frame. “It is.”

“I restored it.” He felt a sense of pride at that. “Not so many years ago it was destined to end up in a dump.”

“You rescued it.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

“I did. Now, come here, sit.” He pulled out the piano bench, directing her to it. “Or were you not serious about learning to play?”

She gave him a sheepish smile. “Oh no, I do want to learn…really.”

“Good then. Sit.” She did as he commanded, perching precariously on the edge of the bench. He sat down on the right and turned to look at her.  “No, no, this won’t do,” he muttered. “If you’re going to learn to play you have to sit _properly_ Miss French.” He grasped her lightly by the arm and tugged her over. She had been sitting so unbalanced that as soon as he pulled, she slipped sideways, one hand coming out to grasp uselessly at the piano while the other found itself on his thigh. Without realizing quite how it had happened, he found himself with an armful of Belle half in his lap, his arms around her, holding her steady and keeping her from falling completely off the bench.

“Oops, sorry.” She sounded rather contrite as she righted herself, sitting thigh to thigh with him on the bench.

“It’s no matter.” He took a deep breath before looking back at her.

This was a mistake.

“So what do I do?”

He nodded. _Yes, business_. He could do this. It was just another deal. He’d teach her. She’d go on her merry way. Just another transaction, like any other he had made. Even if no other had meant he brought the person into his own home, sat close to her, let her touch him. She had _kissed_ him. He wouldn’t forget that easily, try though he had in the past few days.

He lifted his own hand up to the piano, thumb lightly touching the C key, pinky on the G. “Arch your hand like this. You don’t want to press down on the keys with the whole fleshy part of your finger. It bends your finger awkwardly.” He demonstrated by pressing down, bending his finger into a sharp angle at the first joint. “So it’s like this.” And he played lightly up from C to G and back down again. “Now you.”

He watched as she brought her hand up to the piano, attempting to arch her fingers the way he showed her. “Like this?” she asked, glancing up at him from the corner of her eyes.

“No, not exactly. Your fingers are still too straight.” He reached out with his hands, grasped hers, molded the fingers into the perfect arch form. Her hand was small and soft beneath his calloused fingers. Unconsciously, he rubbed his thumb across her knuckles as he released his grip on her. “Like this.”

She nodded. Slowly she played up and down the segment of the scale as directed and turned a brilliant smile on him when she was done. “I made music!”

“Of a sort.” He tried not to smile back, tried to play stern teacher, but found the corner of his mouth twitching nonetheless.

“Oh give me _some_ credit. I have absolutely no musical ability whatsoever. Show me more.” Her enthusiasm was infectious.

“Now the other hand. Same thing.” He watched as she brought her left hand up, still not quite in the correct form. She had the fingers curved, but not quite enough. He leaned over her, taking her left hand in his and shaped the fingers to the proper form. As he released her hand, he met her eyes and realized two things almost immediately. She was _too close_ to him, her blue eyes scant inches from his. And he could feel every inch of her pressed up against him, the heat of her thigh as his pressed into it, his arm brushing her chest as he leaned over her.

She bit her lip as she watched him and he never realized quite how erotic that particular quirk of hers was. “Well,” she said and her voice was soft, husky. It sent shivers through him. “Maybe I won’t need the wine after all.” And then her hand was at the back of his neck and she was pulling him toward her.

Her mouth met his and it was open already, hot. It took him only a moment to react this time as he wrapped one arm around her, the other coming to tangle in her hair. His mouth opened, his tongue entwining with hers. The kiss was fierce, desperate. He was hard almost as soon as her mouth met his, as if he were still a randy teenager and not a middle-aged man who could barely remember the last time he had touched a woman.

Her mouth left his and he felt bereft, craving the contact, until she pushed his hair away from his neck and brought those lush lips to the skin just beneath his ear, biting down with sharp little teeth before making her way up to his earlobe and suckling.

Someone made a gasping noise and he wasn’t quite aware at first that it was he who did so. His eyes slammed shut, the sensation more than he could almost bear. It had been so long… _too long_ , really. “God, Belle…”

He ran one hand down her back, the angle slightly awkward as he turned toward her on the bench. She arched her back into his touch, moving with him, leaning forward further. “Keep doing that,” she murmured and he stroked down her back a few more times before she shifted slightly, reaching down the one hand not still tangled in his hair to pull her top completely off.

Confronted with all that creamy white skin, seeing her upper body clothed in nothing but a lacey dark blue bra, was almost more than he could handle. His shaking hand came back up to touch her back once more, this time his calloused fingers touching silken skin. As he did so, as she moved once more into his caress, she let out a soft sigh.

It was all he needed in that moment, the absolute proof that she wanted this as he did. He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, cradling her head in his large palm and drew her lips back to his. The kiss was less rushed this time, messy, open mouths and tongues and teeth meeting in an unhurried way. _Don’t rush this, Gold_.

Somehow this had gone from the piano lesson he had planned on to something else. And rapidly too. He had wondered if she was planning something like this, though he didn’t want to think too much on it for fear he was seeing things. But thinking was difficult anyway when he had her half-naked in his arms.

Belle suddenly stood and he opened his eyes to look up at her. She smiled at him, slow and sensual as she looked him up and down. “I like you looking like this.” And the words were as sensual as the look in her eyes. Without thinking he slid around on the bench to face her, back to the piano, and was surprised when she simply climbed up on top of him, knees straddling him on the bench, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.

He leaned back, slightly off balance with her suddenly being in his lap. His hands came up and clasped the piano behind him, hitting the keys and making a horribly cacophonous sound. As the piano rang its discordant tones, Belle let out a small laugh. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” And she reached up behind him, her chest coming within inches of his face, as she turned the cover down on the keys. He couldn’t resist. His hands, not occupied with anything at the moment, came up to cup her over the lacey thing she called a bra.

“Yes,” she murmured as he continued to palm the soft mounds, lightly running his thumb over her hardened nipples beneath the material. She reached down and grasped his shirt. “You’re overdressed.”

The words were said with a smile but he felt the flutter of trepidation deep in the pit of his belly. Without thinking about it, he brought his hands up to hers, stilling their attempts at removing his shirt. “Belle…”

She looked up at him, blue eyes meeting his. Her eyes were wide, a slight crease between her eyebrows. “What?”

He shut his eyes, turned his head away slightly. “You don’t want to do that…”

“Of course I do.”

He repeated her name, a little stronger this time.

She sighed and released his shirt, obviously exasperated. “Why wouldn’t I want to do that?”

“I’m an old man Belle…”

She scoffed. “Hardly.”

“I’m over fifty.”

“Like I said, _hardly_. I’m over thirty. What does it matter?”

He let out a small snort in protest. “Oh it matters, dearie.”

“Well, not to me.” She reached behind her and undid the clasp of her bra, letting it fall to the side and off her. “Now it’s only fair that you remove an article of clothing as I’m half naked here.”

There was little he could say to that. He had an eyeful of her pert breasts, mere inches from his mouth, just waiting for him to reach out with lips and tongue to pay them homage. And he did so, leaning forward to clasp her about the back and pull her close to him, his mouth closing over one nipple.

Belle threw her head back, glorious auburn hair flowing out around her, and moaned, a heady sound that went straight through him, running from heart to groin. He barely even notice when she managed to finally remove his shirt, not realizing she had managed to do so until her hands were on his bare chest.

“Beautiful,” she murmured and he felt a shudder go through him.

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.” It was a quip and was taken as such. Belle laughed, leaning down to kiss him full on the lips again.

“Well, it’s never too late.”

He smiled and ran his hands down her, brushing the sides of her breasts and continuing down her ribcage to her hips, still clothed in the skirt she had arrived in. “Beautiful,” he murmured and she smiled.

“See, that wasn’t so difficult.” And he wasn’t sure if she was referring to the word or the fact that she had gotten him shirtless. With Belle perched on his lap, naked from the waist up, it was hard to concentrate on the fact that she had half stripped him bare. It was especially hard to think of anything when she leaned over, wrapped herself around him, pressed her chest into his and bit him lightly on the neck.

He wrapped his arms tight around her for a moment before allowing them to explore her further. Her skirt, already riding high up her thighs, was pushed even further up, his hand slipping beneath to caress the skin first of her outer thigh and then daring to move inward. Her legs were spread far apart as she straddled him and so it was easy to draw lazy circles on the skin of her inner thigh, moving ever higher. She was still suckling at his neck when he came in contact with the slickness at her center.

“You’re not wearing any…” The words were choked out. He couldn’t finish them.

“No,” she said and her voice sounded breathless.

“You planned this.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course I did.” The words were breathy with laughter. “Now touch me.”

“The lady commands,” he murmured and reached his hand back between her legs, moving with firm strokes up her inner thighs back to her center. She was wet, her folds slick with moisture that was caused by what she was doing with _him_. God, how long had it been since he had touched a woman in such a way?  He couldn’t ever remember one so ready, so willing. Why a beautiful young woman like Belle so obviously wanted an old dragon like himself he couldn’t even fathom. But want him she did. He had no doubt of that.

He dipped one finger into her, crooking it slightly as he did so. She let out a soft moan as he did it, and moved with him as he thrust the finger in and out a few times before returning to the area around it. As he rubbed circles around the opening, getting ever closer to where he knew the center of her pleasure was, her moans increased in volume. She was never loud, but with her head so close to his hear, he could hear every moan, every hitched breath, every incoherent word.

Finally he came into contact with that one small bud that was clearly aching for his touch. As soon as his finger brushed her clit, rubbing moisture across it, she let out a sharp gasp and her hips bucked. His free hand came around her, held her close to him, kept her steady as she balanced precariously on the piano bench. He rubbed lightly, then firmer at her command, increasing both pressure and speed. He could feel her shake against him, could feel her breathing go erratic.

“Yes...please…don’t stop…” He did as she bade, keeping the speed and pressure steady. And then she came apart in his arms, pitching forward and shoving him almost painfully back into the keyboard of the piano. He came close to losing his balance, almost sent them both tumbling to the floor, but managed to hang on by willpower alone.

Belle slowly came down from her high, her breathing returning to a more normal rate. He was sure that was the end of it. He had _pleased_ her. It was more than he could ever say for his ex-wife, more than he could say for the one sad attempt he had had as a lover some years ago. Belle had responded to every touch, every caress.

She leaned back and kissed him, a smile on her lips. “Well, then…” She hopped off him, stretched her legs. He was sure that was it. She had gotten what she wanted.

But then she reached behind her, pulling the zipper of her skirt down and baring her completely to his eyes. She _was_ beautiful, there was no doubt about it. Petite and perfectly proportioned, he could honestly say he had never seen a woman more lovely. She blushed slightly under his gaze and he noted the blush started at her cheeks but extended down her neck to her upper chest.

When she took a step toward him, he contemplated finding his shirt, putting it on, keeping her from looking too closely at him. He was an old man, with an old man’s body. Too thin, a little wiry, but not the kind of man women wanted.

But Belle stopped him, ran her hands lightly down his chest, ending in the sparse hair on his belly. She hummed as she did so and then hooked her fingers under the waist of his trousers.  “What are you doing?” The words flew out of his mouth before he could even think of what he was saying.

Belle stopped, arched an eyebrow at him. “Did you think we were done? It seems at least one of us wasn’t.” She reached a hand down, cupped his hard length through his pants for just a moment before returning to undoing his belt and the button on his pants.

He was helpless, putty in her hands. He let her unzip them and draw both pants and underwear down, kicking them off as she did so. Then he was left bare to her gaze. He wanted to hide, wanted to cover himself, bow his head in shame. But Belle would have none of that. Before he could even turn his head away, she had her hand beneath his chin, drawing his face up toward her, forcing him to meet her gaze.

She smiled.

And he was lost.

Leaning down, she kissed him once more and he brought his hands up to her shoulders, to the hair at the nape of her neck, to cup her chin in his hands. The kiss was soft and slow and she didn’t break it as she climbed back up on the bench, hovering over him.

She hesitated there, using his shoulders to gain her balance as the kiss ended. He looked up at her and there was a soft smile on her face. He knew there was a similar look on his.

“Birth control?” he finally managed to choke out.

She laughed, a light little sound that surprised him. “On the pill.” And she gave him a sly grin that made him believe she had actually planned this long ago. Had she? Had she known when she first showed up to his pawn shop that she would seduce him? He thought it had all been done in the heat of the moment, an attraction that just _happened_. But now…he wasn’t sure.

He could concentrate no longer on those thoughts as she lowered herself onto him and he was surrounded by all that wet heat. She threw her head back at the same moment he groaned. When he was all the way inside her, she leaned forward and wrapped herself around him, knees on either side of his hips, arms around his neck, face buried in his hair.

They froze for a moment, breathed each other in. He swallowed, hard, whispered her name. She ran her fingers through his hair, the extra sensation almost too much for him. And then she started moving, lifting herself up and lowering herself back onto him. Slow, so slow at first that it was almost torturous. He groaned as she sped up a little bit and soon his hips were meeting hers in the same rhythm.

It was messy, awkward. He had to grab onto her several times to keep her from driving them right off the bench. She finally grabbed the piano behind him, the extra support giving her the ability to speed up. The friction was almost too much for him and it had just been too long. Gritting his teeth, he hung on, refused to finish before her. He brought one of his hands up, running it down her stomach and finding her clit, rubbing his thumb along the slickness there.

He could feel her shudder, heard her make a low moan as he found it. He circled it with his thumb, matching the rhythm to that of her thrusts and finally, shaking and crying out, she let go, her muscles clenching around him. He pulled his hand away from her, wrapped his arms around her, and followed her over the edge.

She sank down on him and wrapped her arms around him as well, her head resting over his shoulder, her breath heavy in his ears. He could feel himself softening in her, but made no movement. She felt wonderful in his arms, perfect. He didn’t want her to move or leave. He didn’t want to face the awkwardness of what they had done, of any sort of parting.

Finally she disentangled herself from him, pushing herself off and onto obviously shaky legs. He reached out a hand to steady her as she found her balance and then reluctantly released her.

She smiled at him, grabbed his hand before he could move it too far away from her. She held onto it until he finally returned the smile, just a small quirk of one side of his mouth. “So another piano lesson tomorrow?”

His eyebrows rose as the meaning behind the words sunk in. “Actually, there’s a piano…upstairs…in my bedroom. If you wish to check it out that is.” There wasn’t one, really, but somehow he suspected that would matter little to her.

She paused as she was gathering up her clothes and then dropped them to the ground in a heap. Holding out a hand, she drew him to his feet and leaned up to kiss him lightly on the mouth. “Well, who am I to refuse to check out such a thing.”

And he laughed as he led her up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> And also...art! The amazing doctorrsong drew a lovely piece based on this fic. You can see it [here](http://doctorrsong.tumblr.com/post/71398382869/mr-gold-teaches-belle-how-to-play-the-piano-a).


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